32,000 feet high

when i was a child, i always had my face against windows....i just.
i just couldn't adjust to the stale spaces in between
the walls that laid out isolation like standing corners waiting to turn corners,phew.
i grew up squinting heavily, stunned by the sun that pushes the endless breeze array like an unspeakable madness. i've always knew I wanted to run. run on sentences, run.

i couldn't fall easily for the stigmatization but too easy,
the dirty lower east's gritty,pretty sloppy city.
how could this be, me?
i needed bare feet on dirt, needed my fingers to claw through the clouds,
wanted my skin against golden blades of weeping willows,
i weeped as a child begging to run. run smack into the sun.

and shatter into star dusts..

smirking,

how dope it is, to wake up with my face against windows

grabbing the sky by the handful.

'So the darkness shall be the light and the stillness the dancing'

"you do not really understand something unless you can explain it to your grandmother."

grandpa still awakes startled at night howling past the kwanyin goddess and towards the moon. he can no longer hear your spirit come but he can still feel you as he longs for your hands to rub his back, back to calm.....

i use to see you in my sleep, lost you since but now through meditation,your spirit breathes......and through a gentle breeze at the monastery, i can just taste the childhood memories of burnt rice chips and your fon saw dumplings...唵嘛呢叭咪吽

"I love you when you bow in your mosque, kneel in your temple, pray in your church. For you and I are daughters of one religion, and it is the spirit. "

he knows.

on saturday mornings as I am
still curled up under his covers,
he wakes me up with music.
he knows.

a love poem.

i never forgotten how to dance in between the night time gun fires, shooting in between shooting you and shooting up, shooting stars-we're all always looking up...
but then...
love comes along. (what does love got to do with this?)
and you realize when one falls, we all crumble.
i, walked away wounded hearted-
i, ricochet off toward the wind; in crutches.

we fast foward,

i still sleep with my hands under the pillow,
a familiar last stance. grip. a veteran.
fire still reminds me of the way bumble bees move,
deadly and pretty.
like roses laid silently in cemeteries.

'Stars got tangled in her hair whenever she played in the sky.'

rest easy above me: Ajay (Jane) L. Suh


Lay out in the soft brown earth, feel the grass tickle your gentle toes and listen to the silence day in day out. tell me how soft the skies curl around your fingers and how dope it must feel that you're trippin' above me, an infinite high-forever. i will always remain a night chaser... just don't forget to dance through the stars every time you hear the sound of my drums....i'll always look out for you.

'We lay there and looked up at the night sky
and she told me about stars called blue squares
and red swirls and I told her I'd never heard of them. Of course not, she said,
the really important stuff they never tell you.
You have to imagine it on your own.'

Missing you,
Moo.

on my way...

and after you resuscitate me,i have a million plus breaths more.
the darkness fades a bit more every day forth
and every extra mile traveled,
the past times stops chasing you as heavy.
the story here is the story of me now,
healing from the times, times i never let lost.


high fives,
davina.

Gum San (Gold Mountain) 金山

We grew up together less of a daughter, less of a father. Separated by the repercussions of sacramental apprehension and concrete wars dividing us from us becoming cohesive. But dear father, blood has no nationality and if giving birth to me meant gold mountain opportunities, then look at me. Because without you, I was raised tattered with heads turned and hearts damaged by traditional cross fires mingling through silence. I am too tired of becoming your #1 American enemy...and these goddamn hierarchal barriers we construct and destruct are not the morals I wanted to be raised with. I've been spitting out the shrapnels lingering inside of you since I was born. I, too know of war, father. The sound of the machine gun sang to me when you disappeared and it ran chills down your spine every time. We both could hear the longing for years. We both live for the storms, wondering if our own cataclysm would be burly enough for us to catch a long wicked breeze, long enough for us to breathe..long enough for us to breathe.

.

My father; a gold mountain, who dared chase the American dream and ceaselessly stomached a blow of suffrage every time he spun astray.. And for your daughter, who remained unyielding with an obstinate persistence to repair a lineage war. Our lives so closely flawed and intertwined by grief, stricken from growing with more neglect than comfort, and with more of a violent heart than a familiar face.

My father; a gold mountain who clutches dearly to his gangster heart who couldn't speak of, spoke of rearing neglect, overcoming hindrance and dividing sacrifice in between heartbreaks. And I unflinching, dying to forgive. My father, despite his calloused war stories still swags. Nothing ever scares and comforts us more than the grave sea. Even in America father, one can suffer silently too. We become orphans and I just like you, am you. And he nods and says, We,a father a daughter- duo gangsters-will sail over troubled waters and we'll learn to love adaptively through fist bumps.